


Caught in Your Lights

by JazzyClassic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (BBC Radio)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, Fawnlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Tags Are Hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-19 08:27:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3603246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazzyClassic/pseuds/JazzyClassic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a hunter who lives by himself in a cabin in the woods. He sells his game for money, and lives happily, but doesn't know just how boring it actually is until he makes an unexpected catch. </p><p>It looked all too human for John's comfort.<br/>But it was beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Love is a Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kind of proud of this one. Updates to come! 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr for fanfiction related things and requests 
> 
> http://www.tumblr.com/blog/jazzyclassicofficial

The leaves that crunched under John's feet were crisp, newly fallen. The lack of rain had left them dry, causing him to sound his entrance across the wood where he hunted. Quietly he cursed under his breath, as if creating more noise was the solution to there being too much of it. In the distance, he could hear a hooved animal fleeing, it's footfalls feint but still audible. The thudding of the hooves was heavy- a buck. It was gone in an instant, a potential prize wasted. 

Rolling his eyes, John continued on with his hands stuck in his pockets. The hunting season had been disappointingly unproductive. Twice he was forced to venture into town, arms empty, to purchase the supplies he was accustomed to acquiring on his own. The wildlife was not exactly sparse, but the lack of rain- he wouldn't necessarily call it a draugt- was making itself obvious, and forcing the local fauna deeper in, in search of water and food. He figured they would be back next season, and hoped the sun would let up, but somehow felt a little paranoid about it. Wiping his arm across his forehead, John trudged on to check his traps.

The first two held ducks, and the next three were empty. He supposed it was better than nothing, but still, a disappointing score. As he opened the duck traps, the birds began to flap their wings wildly, making a tremendous amount of noise. Not exactly in the mood for this kind of behavior to deal with, John wrapped his fingers around their necks, and broke them in one fluid motion. A sigh of relief escaped him and he tied them together, then gripped the twine in his fist. The last thing he needed was an already pitiful capture scaring away something more valuable. He glanced down at the lifeless birds, then back up at the way from where he had come. That was life. You ate or got eaten, and didn't complain when life presented you with stock. They were ducks, anyway. RThey don't tend to live long anyhow.

With one trap left to check, John continued on, feeling a little bit better about the day. He had a good feeling about the next one. However, as he neared the small clearing where he had set up said trap, he was presented with something not what he was expecting. 

The sound of something which resembled a dying animal's screech filled his ears, and when he looked up he saw birds abandoning their roosts. A chill went down John's spine and he dropped his small bounty. The limp bodies hit the ground with a soft thud. John's hand instinctively went for his rifle, which was slung across his back. He stepped closer, alert and eyes wide. The cries of the animal were harder to hear with every step, and a bead of sweat rolled down his cheek. He supposed it didn't have much to do with the intense heat, but with the sight that met him.

The creature- whatever it was, he couldn't tell from the distance- lay curled in a fetal-like position, quivering. Through the mud and leaves from which John had camouflaged the trap, antlers could be made out, but not much else. A buck? That was impossible. The trap was maybe big enough for a juvenile doe to lay down in. To think that a full grown male could become ensnared in it was foolhardy. Cautiously John made his way forward towards the trap, and when a twig snapped under the bottom of his shoe, the bleating and wailing stopped, and John froze. The sudden silence was startling. 

Once he had reached the trap, John took a deep breath. Tentatively he began to remove the foliage that he had used to disguise it, and when he got a full look of what he had trapped, he stumbled backwards from the shock and gasped.

Large, brown eyes focused on him. The lids were open wide, and aware, watching him carefully. Long lashes batted at him with every blink, and John blinked back. Unsure of what to do, John simply sat up on his haunches, studying the creature just as it studied him. 

Soon, John worked up the courage to move close to it to examine it better, but as he moved closer, it moved back, whining and bleating as it pressed against the far side of the trap, a futile attempt at escape. John leaned back, and whatever he had caught watched him fearfully.

John squinted. The inside of the trap was dark, but he was able to make out a humanoid form. For a second, he panicked. Had he captured a human? Surely not. Humans don't make noises like that or have antlers.

His heart rate quickened, and he began to sweat more profusely. 

 

Before him sat crouched what looked like a person, covered in dark brown fur with eyes of the same color, deep and aware, penetrating. Its body was brown, and its stomach was white. Dots freckled its nose and cheeks, and a powdery white tail folded itself against its flank. The antlers were the most prominent feature aside from the eyes, which John found difficult not to stare into. Lastly, John noticed the full head of curly dark brown hair which hung just over the creature's eyes. That seemed to be the most unsettling thing about this beast.

 

It looked all too human for John's comfort. 

But it was beautiful.

 

The thing that found itself stuck in John's trap blew a breath of air out of its nose is a snort, bringing John back to reality. 

"O-oh, God..." He muttered, looking around. "Um, hang on-" He began unfastening the trap's door, and the creature watched him with curiosity. It even leaned in and stuck its little fingers- yes, fingers- through the thin wire bars and tried mimicking him. John pulled his fingers away, watching in awe. The creature did the same, and looked up at him, still focused, still alert.

"Watch your fingers..." He chuckled nervously, finishing up on the door. It fell down with a loud clang, and the creature flinched slightly, but after a few moments poked its head out of the trap, and crawled out cautiously. John stood slowly as not to startle it, and backed away. 

The creature raised itself to a standing position and John felt a large lump rise in his throat. It stood on two feet and was nearly as tall as him, and was extremely thin. Its nose twitched as it sniffed at the air, looking around. It didn't seem to notice John was even there, or seem at all bothered by his presence. John swallowed and took a furtive step forward, but froze when the sound of a gunshot echoed through the forest. The Creature's ears perked and its head snapped up. It locked eyes with John, clearly startled, then hesitated. Before John had the chance to get any closer, it was gone. The only evidence that it had been there were the footprints it left behind as it ran back to the safety of the bush.

 

John stood there for a few moments longer, then turned around and headed back to where he had dropped his ducks. A fox had come and had taken bites out of the flesh, but John couldn't be bothered to care. He left the carcasses there and returned back to the safety of his cabin, prepared to convince himself that all he had just experienced was a dream.


	2. The Artist's Rendering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's time at the pub is spent trying to forget what he had seen, but unfortunately the opposite is accomplished.

John did his best to block out the noise of the bar, focusing on the wooden countertop. His face was reflected back at him off the glossy finish, looking rather exhausted, almost unfamiliar. There were bags under his eyes, and the color that tinted his cheeks was gone. It had been almost a week since his encounter in the woods, and he couldn't help but think about it at night, preventing him from sleeping. Its eyes were still fresh in his mind, and when he looked out the window at night, he could almost see them, watching him with that serene curiosity.

Molly, the bar tender, must have noticed how distant he was being, and touched his arm a bit apprehensively. "John," She started, "are you alright-"

"Fine, fine." He replied quickly, sounding more harsh than he meant. "I'm just- I'm a bit tired, sorry. Game's been a little scarce lately, so I've had to stay out a bit later than normal." He gave her a tired smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. She smiled back at him, apparently not seeing through the fib. That was Molly, though. She was sweet, and book smart, but awkward, and bad with people. She could read a person like John could sew. That was to say, not at all.

John was desperate to change the subject. He would rather not think about what he was trying to convince himself he had not witnessed. "You look lovely today. Did you do something different with your hair?"

Molly blinked, looking a bit surprised. "I- oh, no, nothing at all..." She twirled a strand of hair around her finger, looking away. "It's the same as how it was yesterday, John..." 

"Oh, I hadn't noticed."

Molly nodded, looking a little disappointed. She cleared the empty mugs away and carried them off to the sink, leaving John alone again. He wasn't intentionally rude to Molly, it was just that he wasn't always sure how to talk to her. 

John watched as Molly disappeared into the kitchen and looked around, noticing someone sitting to his left who he had not noticed before. The man turned to him and flashed a smile, then lowered his hood. "Morning, Detective Inspector." John greeted. "I didn't recognize you at first."

The man shrugged off his coat and folded it against his arm, then laid it across the table. "Now, John. You know I've asked you to call me Gregory." The man replied, clapping John on the back. John flinched a little, but gave him an awkward smile. He patted Gregory's knee and shifted on his stool. 

Gregory blinked, pulling his hand away. "Sorry, John. I keep forgetting-"  
"It's fine." John interjected, waving his hand. "Let's not talk about it."

Gregory nodded but watched John a bit suspiciously as they talked.

Gregory Lestrade was the town's detective inspector, and head of the police force. He was a good friend of John's and had met him through a case that John was involved in as a victim. A hunting accident, it was, which had left John with a scar on his shoulder and an involuntary flinch when he was touched suddenly or otherwise surprised. Fully recovered now, he continued to hunt, having no further incidents after that.

Greg was an older gentleman who lived by himself in town and spent most of his downtime in the bar, keeping an eye on things. The police force was as bare as it could get without simply dissolving, and Molly was often the victim of noisy patrons trying to take advantage of her. Even though Greg wasn't necessarily a drinker, he still had a pint now and then to give him a reason (and perhaps to work up the courage) to flirt with Molly. John smiled whenever he witnessed it. After since his wife divorced him and took their young daughter, Greg had been rather sad and John was happy that Molly could bring him happiness even if she didn't reciprocate his feelings.

After they had exhausted all topics of conversation, and after Greg had downed his mug, he stood, extending his hand to John. "Well, I should get going-"

Suddenly the chatter died, and words were spoken in hushed voices. John looked over his should as the door to the bar creaked open, and in stepped a rather tall blonde man wearing a leather coat and dark slacks. Greg snorted, shaking his head. "Figures. Always gotta ruin a good time."  
John scowled.

The tall man scanned the room, sneering. His lip curled up, and he spit on the floor. "Drunken vermin..." He muttered. He turned and opened the door, and held it open for the man coming in behind him. This one was a tad shorter, with neat black hair which was combed back. He wore an expensive looking suit and a look of vague amusement on his face. 

Greg narrowed his eyes and visibly recoiled, visibly disgusted. John had a similar reaction, standing up, and crossing his arms. Eyes shifted from him, to the other man, and back to him. The tension was palpable.

"Well, look, Sebastian, it's the injured doe." The shorter of the two addressed the blonde man, who smirked at John.

"Piss off, James." Gregory spat.

"Ohh, so feisty. If you're not careful everyone will get annoyed with you and leave, just like your wife did. Honestly, I'm a little surprised it hasn't happened yet."

John's eye twitched, and he had to resist the urge to shout. "Are you taking a piss, James? What is it you want?"

The man called James chuckled a little, taking a few steps towards John. "I wouldn't do such a thing in an unsanitary, disgusting, shithole place like this. I might get a UTI." He shot Molly a toothy smirk, who backed away behind the counter and began to polish a mug to give her a reason to look away. Greg took one look at the frightened look on her face and growled, standing beside John. "It would serve you right."

James rolled his eyes. "Enough with the small talk, alright? I don't have time to waste on your pathetic attempts at insults." He turned to the one called Sebastian, who reached into the inside of his coat and pulled out a rolled up piece of parchment. He passed it over to James.

Sebastian was a hunter, like John, but unfortunately was much more skilled. He was an expert at artillery and camouflage, and made James's money for him by hunting game. He was quite adept at tracking as well, and therefore caught much more than James's needed to stay in business. 

James was a taxidermist, and owner of Moriarty's Taxidermy, a facility that stuffed animals and recycled the unused meat into jerky, which he also sold to the local country store and butcher. He was well known across town and owned plenty of other property besides the one his business rested on. He was rather difficult to touch, needless to say, despite how much several people would love to. And not really touch, but more accurately assault.

James unfurled the parchment and approached John with it, and what he saw almost caused him to have a heart attack.

It was a sketch.  
Of the creature.

"This," James started, "is an animal that Sebastian witnessed on his hunt last week. Isn't it peculiar?" He smiled, and briefly John was reminded of a crocodile. He felt sick. "I've already received an offer from Mycroft Holmes. If Sebastian can catch it, I'll receive quite the pretty penny."

John gaped at the sketch, then tore his eyes away from it. "What do you... What do you mean..?" He stammered out, part of him still disbelieving it and afraid of what he would hear.

"Mycroft Holmes has been informed of the beast's existence, and would like to purchase it from me." James rerolled the parchment and passed it back to Sebastian, who stored it back inside his jacket. "Surely you're not so daft you still don't understand?"

"Enough, Moriarty!" Greg barked, stepping between him and John. John opened and closed his mouth, at a loss for words and unsure how to handle the situation. 

"You'll attract flies, John, if your stinking cabin hasn't already" He heard Moriarty muse, unreactive to Greg's attempt to divert the attention away from John. "Shut it, Moriarty. I arrested you once, and I'll do it again." Greg tried again, his voice strong. 

"On what grounds?" Moriarty cocked a precisely groomed brow, the amusement disappearing from his face.

John looked over his shoulder at Molly, who was watching Moriarty. He thought he saw her twitch. He took a deep breath and turned back to the conflict in front of him.

"On the grounds that you are being disruptive, and we still have some investigating to do on your case. If you don't get out of here I might just take you in for questioning and search your facility." 

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "You don't have a search warrant." But regardless he turned, and strolled towards the door. Sebastian followed behind him as the bargoers watched, solemn expressions on their faces. 

The door closed with a quiet 'chk', and steadily the normal conversation and noise returned. 

"Stupid git..." Gregory muttered. "John, I don't know why he bothers with you, honestly- John, are you alright?" But John wasn't listening. He stared at the door and replayed the events that had just taken place over and over in his mind. Every time, the drawing of the creature appeared in vivid Technicolor, staring at him with those studying brown orbs. 

"John, are you listen-- JOHN-" 

His head hit the floor, and then it was black.


	3. Unexpected Guests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes home from the pub to find that he must yet again face another awkward situation, and more unwanted guests.

John waved goodbye to Greg as he walked down the short path leading away from John's cabin, putting on a smile until the other man turned around. Once Greg had done so and was out of sight, John let the plastered grin melt off and he disappeared into the privacy of his four walls. 

After John fell unconscious in the pub, Greg and Molly had resuscitated him, and Greg made sure he got home safely, and even got him to eat a little before the somewhat long journey back to John's small settlement in the woods. John appreciated the help from his friend and Molly, of course, but as of right now he wanted to be left alone. The past week had been a little too busy for his liking, and he felt the stress was going to eat him alive. 

Speaking of eating, after returning home and settling down, he felt a pit peckish, and the cheap pub food that Molly had hurried to prepare for him (bless her heart, she tries) wasn't doing the trick. He shrugged off his coat and hung it up on the rack on the back of the door, just beneath his rifle, and turned to make his way into the kitchen.

He stopped dead in his tracks when the sound of clanging pots and pans and shattering plates echoed from the kitchen. John turned on his heel and snatched the rifle from it's hooks above the front door and made a break for the kitchen. His socked feet slipped on the hardwood floor as he ran, causing him to skid into the room and slam into the far wall. John made a pained noise and was briefly disoriented, but quickly regained himself. He fumbled with his rifle, getting a firm hold of it, and took aim, his finger on the trigger. "Who's there?!" He demanded, his head swiveling from side to side, scanning the room. The latch on the back door was locked and the glass was still in tact, and the way that he had come was the only other way out of the room, and he was certain the intruder hadn't made it past him. 

"Damn..." He huffed, lowering his gun. He did another visual sweep of the room and again found nothing. "What the hell..?"

He scowled and put a hand on his hip. He felt lightheaded and was starving, and God damn it, this was not the kind of thing he wanted to deal with after a week like what he was having. There was probably another punk kid trying to steal from him again or something, and if that was what he was going to find, he sure as hell was going to give Gregory a ring.

"Come out now, or else I'll round up the police."

He looked around the room for the third time, and still, there was only silence. "Fine, I'll find you myself, and you don't want that." He reloaded his gun as noisily as possible to get the point across and lowered himself into a crouching position. 

He moved soundless across the tiled floor, moving towards the curtain that covered about half of the back door. He raised his gun and shoved it back, ready to move, but there was nothing there. he huffed and stood up, convinced that there was no way whatever was in his kitchen had anywhere to hide, but at the same time feeling sure it hadn't yet escaped. He turned around and stepped around the pots and broken pieces of china, and crouched again, holding his breath, listening. 

There were feint sounds of breathing- wheezing? No- sniffing. He followed the sound to the cabinet beneath the sink, and hesitated before opening it. There was no way anyone, not even a teenager, could fit under there, but his ears didn't deceive him. It couldn't be an animal, either. Animals weren't smart enough to know to hide that well when they knew they were being caught. Short teenager then? He honestly didn't care.

"Alright," he grabbed the handle and opened pulled the cabinet open. "I'm sick of you little gits just showing up and-"

John stopped midsentence, sputtering, and stared into the eyes of the creature. It sat with its back pressed against the back of the cabinet, and its neck bent at an odd angle. Its antlers interfered with its ability to sit comfortably in such a small space. The creature bleated at him in a sort of dead-pan, and John recoiled. He fell back on his bum and propped himself up with his hands, and it stayed put.

"What the hell-" John mouthed. The creature replied with a snort, frowning at him. It rolled over onto its stomach and crawled out of the cabinet on its hands and knees, towards John. John yelped and pushed back. Undeterred, the creature came closer, sniffing at the air as it crawled. It kept its eyes fixed on John- those curious, studying eyes. John moved more hastily, breathing heavily. He knew it wasn't like deer to behave in this way- they were herbivores, not hunters, and maybe it was this that caused him to fear it. It was unpredictable, and when he felt his back hit the wall, he held his breath, still trying to push against it, to get away. He had seen what antlers could do to other deer, and didn't want to be made an example off.

The Creature placed its hands on John's knees, and John gasped, freezing. It lowered its head and sniffed the inside of his thigh, then pressed forward, moving its nose up his lower stomach, then chest, stopping to rub its wet nose against his neck. It inhaled John's scent deeply, rubbing its cheeks against John's, careful not to jab him with its antlers. John's face flushed, and he panicked, but didn't move. The Creature was now fully situated on top of John, straddling him, and pressing itself flush against him.

"Oh god, please-" He groaned, extremely confused and honestly, scared shitless. The Creature raised its head and looked down at John, their noses touching. It tilted its head and looked confused itself. John began to sweat. "Please get off of me-" He begged, barely above a whisper.

The Creature pulled away and moved back, and sat on its haunches. John sat up himself, watching it suspiciously. It replaced its hands on John's knees and watched him expectantly, as if it were waiting for him to do something. John eyed it and pulled his legs away, then pushed himself up from the ground. The Creature, whatever it was, stayed put on the ground, watching John as he walked a generous circle around it. 

"Christ..." He paced, turning occasionally to look in the things direction, to make sure it was still there. 

"Christ." It repeated, furrowing its brows. "Ker... Ker-eist."

John for the umpteenth time that day, almost had a heart attack.

"Oh, so you talk, in addition to breaking into people's homes and breaking their dishware!?" He threw his hands up in the air, and The Creature looked from side to side, then shrugged.

"Smart ass, too, that's great, fucking peachy." He snapped, and the Creature looked startled. It looked down towards the ground and snorted. 

John sighed. "No need to look so dejected..." He leaned in the doorway and blew a breath out through his nostrils, closing his eyes. His hand came up to rub at his temples, and unknown to John, the Creature did the same, imitating him.


	4. The Basics of Interaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has encountered The Creature in his home. After finding it under the sink and being crawled upon by it, the two really get to know each other.

John paced the floor of the living room, his bare feet padding across the hardwood with subtle thumps, then squeaks as he turned and began going back the direction from where he had come. He ran a hand through his sandy blonde hair and took deep breaths as he went. The Creature watched him from the couch, tilting its head from side to side each time John turned.

John mumbled to himself and rubbed his mouth. In the span of one week he had managed to turn his life completely around, and maybe not for the best. He had already been having a rather shitty season, then stumbled across that- that THING in the woods in one of his traps... And then thought he was going crazy. He spent a week drinking himself sick in a bar because he was convinced he was off his rocker. And then, Moriarty and Moran dropped in, just when he was beginning to feel a little better, only to have some salt rubbed in the mental wound. Now, here we are, fifteen minutes after the icing atop the cake: Finding the nightmare in his house- under the sink with the cleaning solution, no less. 

It's a good thing it had made some noise or else who knows how he would have found it. He could have been opening the cabinet to get the damn bleach and there it would have been, handing it to him. 

He shook his head at the thought, and turned to the aforementioned nightmare. It jumped as if startled, and watched him with wide eyes as it resettled back into the couch cushions. John watched it watch him and sighed, finding it hard to be angry at it. It wasn't this things fault; it was just an animal, after all. An animal that could form basic words- or word- and that walked on two legs and unsettlingly resembled a person and was almost John's size- but an animal all the same. It had just done what animals do and gotten itself stuck in a trap. 

John wiped a hand down across his face and sighed, then moved towards the couch. The Creature blinked at him and kept its eyes fixed on John as he sat beside it. It sniffed at the air but otherwise didn't react, or seem at all alarmed. John took another deep breath through his nose and let it out through his mouth in a sigh, and turned his head towards the opposite side of the couch.

"Well..." He started, unsure of what to say. He wasn't entirely certain where he was going with that, but it was somewhere. The Creature's ears perked and swiveled towards John. John watched them, a little put off but not undeterred. 

"Well... Who're you?" He finished a little suddenly, and the Creature looked surprised. It looked from side to side, then back to John, as if unsure what to do, since it was rather improbable that it would say anything back. Again, John was unsure where he was going with that, but it was the best he had. He hardly talked to real people, and animals- this thing- were more difficult.

John frowned and rubbed his face. The Creature then slapped it's hand against its cheek and did the same. John sighed, and it snorted.

"Alright, baby steps..." He pulled his hand away, then touched it to his chest. "John." He said. "Me? John."

The Creature put its hand on its own chest, watching expectantly. John nodded, pointing at it. "Yes, who're you? You." He repeated it, then touched his own chest. "John." He stated, then pointed at The Creature. It looked around, then leaned forward. It pressed its palm against John's pectoral, over his heart. "J... J a w n..." It sounded the word out slowly, then repeated it with more confidence. "John."

John flinched a bit at the touch, but nodded. "Yes, John." He took The Creature's hand in his, then gently pushed it towards itself. "Your turn."

It hesitated, then opened its mouth. John raised a brow and leaned in a bit.

"Sherlock."

John nodded enthusiastically, smiling a bit. "Yes, that's your name." As if he knew. He pointed to himself. "John." Then to Sherlock. "Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded.

"Alright... First order of business taken care of."

"Business." Sherlock agreed.

John glanced at him, fighting off a smile. "Don't get cheeky with me."  
Sherlock just shrugged.

John stood and began pacing again, feeling a little bit better about the situation. At least he knew Sherlock wasn't going to gore his guts out with his antlers- at least, he hoped not. And it did have a name, so it was intelligent. It was a name John had never heard before, which hopefully meant that Sherlock came from a tribe, or a herd of whatever he was and had parents, or family, or friends, members, etcetera that could have named him- or maybe he was just a dumb animal who had figured out how to put sounds together. Who knows. 

The sound of John's stomach growling interrupted his train of thought, and Sherlock looked taken aback. John put a hand on his stomach as Sherlock got up from the couch and padded towards him. It kneeled in front of John and John watched with wide eyes as Sherlock pressed an ear against his abdomen. John couldn't help but laugh a bit out loud. He pushed Sherlock head away gently. "I'm alright, just hungry. Hungry? Food?" John turned and walked towards the kitchen, then stopped in the doorway. He beckoned Sherlock over. "Come here."

Sherlock stood and followed behind him. John looked to the floor at the shattered plates and sighed. Sherlock began backing away, staying in the doorway and watching from around the corner. John bent over to scoop up the pieces, groaning as his back protested. Sherlock snorted, and John looked over his shoulder. "What's wrong?"  
Sherlock looked away.  
"What?"

Sherlock shook his head and backed out further, and then it hit John.  
"Oh... Oh, no, Sherlock, it's alright." He smiled and dumped the pieces into the trash, motioning for Sherlock to come back in. "There, all better. Let's go. Want some food?" 

Sherlock peeked back in and took small steps into the room. John nodded and began going through the cabinets. He had deer bait, and duck food, bread, honey, and other things that he used to bait the traps. He also had a baggie of trail mix and granola. He shook the bag to get Sherlock's attention, who seemed to have forgotten his hesitance and was suddenly very close to John, sniffing at the bag. John laughed and tried to move away, but Sherlock would not be shaken off. He leaned in close to John, who had to move his head to avoid being poked in the eye by antlers.

"Give me a second to at least open the bag, Jesus- there, take it, take it."

Sherlock took the bag in his smaller hands and reached inside, then sat on the floor and began feeding himself. John pulled up a chair from the kitchen table and watched him with vague amusement. "Like that?"

Sherlock just sat there with a look of content on his face and didn't answer, quietly munching on his food. "Glad you do. Molly gave that to me. Can't stand the stuff."

Sherlock just nodded his head and continued eating. John was surprised by just how human Sherlock seemed. He was not only humanoid in anatomy, but behavior. Sherlock couldn't be bother to deal with being social; He was too busy with something else but would play along. The basics of interaction.

"At least I have a garbage disposal now."


End file.
